The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  And returned with the sole survivor of a shipwreck. That survivor was Sully Yot.

  67

  Miphon's dream: to learn to breed the paratopic; to teach this knowledge to the world; to benefit all humanity by ending sickness, drunkenness and addiction for once and forever. This dream, which Miphon has come to cherish, allows him to persuade himself that Drake's intentions are strictly honourable.

  When Sully Yot was brought aboard the Dragon, goose-pimples standing out on his skin like an extra set of warts, the first person he recognized was Drake. Who promptly drew his sword.

  'Belay that!' said Jon Arabin, with anger in his blue-sky eyes. 'Sheath that blade on the instant!'

  'I'll see Yot dead first,' snarled Drake.

  Upon which Yot swooned, thumping to the deck like a derelict sack of potatoes.

  'You kill him, and you die yourself,' said Jon Arabin.

  Seeing the Warwolf was serious, Drake reluctantly sheathed his sword. He then argued strenuously for the immediate lynching of Sully Yot.

  'He's useless meat,' said Drake. 'We've got ballast enough already.'

  But both Walrus and Warwolf refused to countenance such execution. Both felt they had seen far too much pointless death in the last few years.

  'He's an old shipmate of ours,' said Jon Arabin. 'You can't kill him off just like that!'

  'He stole that magic star-globe from the rest of us when

  we were in the Penvash Peninsular,' said Drake.

  'Aagh, that's ancient history,' said the Walrus. 'And if we're to speak of stealing, what about that tinder-box? Anyway, that ball of stars was no good to anyone. All it did was open a Door from one place of horror to another - and who'd care to chance such a second time, having survived it once?'

  'I've - I've personal quarrels with Yot,' said Drake.

  'Then you'll not settle such quarrels aboard the good ship Dragon,' said Jon Arabin. T charge you with the care, comfort, safety and security of Sully Yot. Punishment, if you fail, will be unlimited!'

  Arabin followed this order with specific instructions. Amongst other things, he warned Drake not to let Yot fall overboard at night while sleepwalking, eat poison, fall on knives, tumble down a companion-way, or accidentally strangle himself.

  'If he dies,' said Jon Arabin, 'I'll know who killed him!'

  Thus it was that when Yot regained consciousness, the first thing he saw was Drake Douay leaning over him. Yot lay helpless, staring up at him. What was the most vicious, crippling thing Drake could say? He thought swiftly, then said it:

  'Gouda Muck is dead.'

  'What?' said Yot.

  'Dead,' said Drake. 'Muck. He's dead.' 'You always did tell a good lie,' said Yot. And fainted.

  When Yot came round, Drake started on at him again. 'Muck really is dead, you know. He was mad. Here, drink this.'

  So saying, Drake fed Yot some tepid broth. They were in Jon Arabin's master-cabin, which had been temporarily reserved for the invalid. Yot had been almost dead when rescued from the Gaunt Reefs.

  While feeding Yot, Drake spun a long and involved tale about the madness of Gouda Muck, and about Muck's death. This part of his story was true. Slowly, as detail gathered on detail, Drake saw despair register in Yot's eyes. Yot believed. For Drake's account of Muck's final madness made sense in the light of Muck's life.

  Strangely, while telling the history of Muck's last days, Drake felt his anger subside. Muck had been mad, true. So who could rightly hold his actions against him? Yot had always been sane, of course - but feeble-minded. Could Yot help it if he had a brain as soft as stinking cheese? And they had been friends, of a sort, in the years of their apprenticeship . . .

  'No doubt you'd also like to hear,' said Drake, 'about the death-stone and the magic red bottle and such.'

  'Nothing,' said Yot weakly, 'could be further from my mind.'

  'We know each other too well to be believing that,' said Drake. 'The truth is that Morgan Hearst lost his temper with Blackwood and Miphon when we were all beseiged together in the western gatehouse of Lorford . . .'

  Thus Drake began telling a pack of total untruths. He made Yot believe that Hearst had seized the death-stone and the red bottle before parting company with Miphon and Blackwood.

  'Then I guessed wrong,' said Yot. 'I guessed where you'd go - that part I got right.'

  'Yes,' said Drake, 'yes, you did well to guess the first part.'

  'But I also thought... I also thought you'd have bottle and death-stone with you. So I chanced my life for nothing . . .'

  'Never mind,' said Drake. 'It's all over now. We're to be friends.'

  'We are?' said Yot. 'Aye,' said Drake.

  He almost hoped that this was true. In any case, he would be safer if Yot thought of him as a friend.

  With Yot slowly convalescing on board, the Dragon proceeded south.

  With her lean, long lines, the Dragon was a fast ship, and a wet one. The deck was a slather of spray and water in seas where the old Warwolf would have been near enough to bone-dry.

  A day after they had cleared the Gaunt Reefs, they became embroiled in a two-day tussle with the tail-end of a cyclone. As the ship pitched and heaved, Drake was heartily glad that Zanya was safe in the red bottle, where - or so report had it - the horizons were always stable no matter how much the bottle was shaken.

  Drake spent much of the storm in the cabin with Sully Yot, going over the details of Muck's final madness time and time again. Each time he told the story, his attitude to Muck softened.

  'Aye,' said Drake, one day of storm. 'I remember the day when I was to be thrown to the sea beyond Stokos. Muck came to the waterfront to see me off. Brought clothes for me. Trousers, aye, and a jersey of greasy wool. That was before his madness set in. Likely those things saved my life - so I can't hold too much against him.'

  'We've . . . we've been through a lot together,' said Yot.

  'Aye,' said Drake. 'In Penvash and all. . .'

  And nostalgia claimed them as the storm worsened.

  After the Dragon had survived the storm-weather, the days smoothed out nicely as she sailed for the south. She kept well clear of the coast, but a silt-brown discoloration told when she was abeam of Androlmarphos and the Velvet River v

  Further south, the crew sighted a smudge on the eastern horizon. Jon Arabin averred that the smudge was the western coast of Stokos. Drake gazed on it for a long time, thinking of his mother, his father, his brother Heth. There were tears in his eyes when he turned away.

  'Why are you crying?' said Yot, happening upon this scene of homesickness.

  'Man,' said Drake, T was thinking of Zanya.'

  'Why so?'

  'When we reached Anvil,' said Drake, 'she decided she could live no longer with the blue leprosy. She cut her throat. Aye, like my sister did on Stokos.'

  'I'm . . . I'm sorry to hear that,' said Yot.

  Drake, to his amazement, found himself believing Yot was truly sincerely sorry. Drake's news of the madness of Gouda Muck had knocked most of the religious nonsense out of Sully Yot. Near-death on the Gaunt Reefs also seemed to have changed the man. Maybe they could be true friends for the future. It was unlikely, but:

  Improbabilities are not impossibilities.

  Three nights later, Drake was standing watch on a clear and cloudless night. The ship was heading south in an easy swell, airing along with all sail set and a light wind coming from the east.

  The light winds meant their speed was less than dazzling. Even so, by Jon Arabin's calculations they were now entering the Drangsturm Gulf; Narba, or the ruins of Narba, should be somewhere out in the night, about fifty leagues to larboard.

  Drake was steering. The weather was so steady he felt he could just about have lashed the wheel and left it. However, he had two youngsters on this watch, Zim and Krane, both sixteen years of age, and senseless. Drake was determined to set an example.

  These teenagers!

  They were thoughtless, reckless, idle and irresponsible. What was wo
rse, they thought they knew it all. And they were cheeky into the bargain! Unlike Drake, they had never had to man the rigging in a howling storm; they had never made a bluewater voyage to Hexagon and back; they had never been shipwrecked in the Penvash Channel.

  What they needed was a hard master like Gouda Muck to kick them into shape. Yes. Perhaps he should talk it over with Jon Arabin. They could set up an apprenticeship to get these would-be pirates whipped into line.

  Right now, Zim and Krane were sitting on the deck having a regular chin wag. Drake wondered what he could do to stir them up. Send them down to the kitchen, yes, to bring up some soup. Because—

  Drake's train of thought was broken as the ship shuddered. They had struck something!

  'Rocks!' shouted Zim, grabbing for the wheel.

  Drake hit him fast and hard with a rabbit punch, then gave him a push which sent him reeling away.

  'Man,' said Drake, firm in control of the wheel once more, 'you grab stupid like that again, and I'll give you a leathering. I've the helm, aye, and the head to manage it.'

  The ship was still running along nicely. The wind was the same, and the swells as regular as ever. Drake listened, but heard no sound of water breaking on rocks. Raising his voice to a shout, he hailed the crow's-nest:

  'What sign!'

  The reply came back:

  'Nothing!'

  Which was what Drake had expected. There was, after all, no rock, reef, shallow, shoal, island, cay, cliff or shore within fifty leagues of them. Drake had that on the authority of Jon Arabin, who knew these waters as well as any man alive.

  'What was it?' said Krane.

  'Sharbly we grounded a whale,' said Drake.

  Then remembered saying those very same words years ago, in the Penvash Channel. On that occasion, it had been a sea serpent they had tangled with.

  There was another thump.

  'Krane!' said Drake. 'Take the lantern and go forward. See what you can see. Zim, look over the side.'

  'Shall I go wake the bald-headed one?' said Zim.

  'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'He'll wake himself if we hit again. And if we don't, what matter?'

  'We might be holed,' said Zim.

  'Nay,' said Drake, 'not from a teeny little bump like that. Go on, get moving the pair of you.'

  Grief! What if Zim was right? If they were holed, they would probably be busy till dawn.The last thing Drake wanted to do right now was to fother a hole by night.

  'Zim!' called Drake. 'What do you see over the side?'

  'Something,' said Zim, uncertainly.

  'What? Is it big, small, still, moving, foaming, swirling? Is it light, creamy, dark, shadowy? Do the stars reflect off it? Is it a sea serpent? A whale? A kraken?'

  'A log.'

  'Blood of the moon,' said Drake. 'A log. Likely that was what we hit. I'd say—'

  He didn't say, for at that moment there came a scream fit to scar the sky.

  'Zim!' said Drake. 'Get your arse here! Quick quick quick! The wheel, man! Take it, take it! Steer steady, man, or I'll string you up from the yardarm by your lower bowel. Stay tight!'

  With that said, Drake raced along the deck toward the lantern. He found it, and found Krane holding it, and looking most uncertain.

  'What was that scream?' said Krane.

  'An owl, maybe,' said Drake. 'Or perhaps one of your whore-arsed friends just birthed a baby. Come, man, let's go check. Here, give me the lantern, you'll likely drop it if you shake much more.'

  Drake took the lantern. It was a good one, with the light from a big bright candle shining out through windows of horn. He stepped out smartly, with Krane trailing in his wake. Then stopped, hearing footsteps up ahead. A man was coming towards them. Drunk, if the footsteps were anything to go by. Drake, lantern in one hand, filled the other with steel, just in case.

  He had just done so when into the lamplight came a man who had lost his face. Blood ran thick in his beard, dripped down his jerkin and dribbled to his boots. He staggered. Then fell forward onto the deck.

  By lantern-light, Drake saw a great chunk missing from the man's back. Bone gleamed white amidst seething blood.

  'Drake, there's—'

  T see it,' said Drake.

  Something was skulking in the shadows. Something not in human form. Whatever it was, it was huge.

  'Slaughterhouse!' screamed Drake, which was the ship's weapon-shout.

  Again he screamed, and heard others take up the cry. Another thump shook the ship. As the creature in the shadows started to advance, Drake heard Krane's feet pounding along the deck as the boy fled.

  'Courage, man,' said Drake to Drake.

  He set down the lantern then backed away from it.

  'Into the shadows, now,' he whispered.

  And took his own counsel as the creature - the monster! - stalked toward the lantern.

  The monster had a carapace roughly like that of a crab. But, unlike a crab, it had not two eyes, but many. These eyes, each deep-set in a socket, shimmered in the lantern-light, glittered with spangles of reflected fire.

  And Drake thought:

  Run

  But did nothing.

  Terrified.

  Paralysed.

  And . . . fascinated.

  The creature's carapace rode high above the deck on a dozen multi-jointed legs. Mounted on top of the carapace was what looked - at first glance - like a gigantic sea anemone. A seething array of writhing tentacles, of jointed hooks and coiled whips.

  Drake, mesmerized by horror, watched as one of those whips uncoiled slowly, slowly, slowiy, and drifted down toward the deck to nuzzle the lantern. Gently. The candle-flame flickered as the lantern was tilted then released.

  Then - suddenly! - the whip snapped back.

  And the monster muscled toward Drake. Who stood staring, staring at its avanturine orbs, its oiled legs soothing toward him.

  And he thought:

  Nowl

  And raised his sword. And attacked. With a scream: 'Sharn!'

  The creature slashed at him with half a dozen whips at once. His sword was knocked away. Whips slammed against him like knotted ropes. He fell sprawling to the deck. He screamed. Jerked out a boot-knife. And threw it. With no effect. Tentacles darted out, whipped around his ankles, and started to haul him off the deck.

  Then the monster wailed, and reared up. An arrow had pierced one of its eyes. Another shaft slammed home. The creature fled, hauling Drake behind it. He bounced over the deck, grabbing for something, anything - help me! - and finding nothing.

  Then the creature stopped. Abruptly. There was a hideous graunching, crunching, thumping sound. The tentacles which had been hauling Drake relaxed.

  He got to his feet.

  Something huge bulked against the night. It loomed over the wreckage of the dead monster. Larger than anything human. Then it spoke:

  'Man,' said Whale Mike. 'You got nice choice in friends. Or this your lover, perhaps?'

  'No,' said Drake. 'That was my mother-in-law.'

  'Well, she not good for much now. Sorry about that.'

  'That's all right,' said Drake. 'We never got on very well anyway.'

  Moving stiffly, he walked back to the lantern light and recovered his sword. The lantern was burning as steadily as ever, but Drake became aware that all around was alarm, panic and chaotic confusion, as three hundred pirates roused themselves out to face danger.

  Here and there, fighting was in progress. Something inhuman screamed as it died. Drake sheathed his sword. His right elbow hurt like hell. He rubbed it, which failed to improve matters. Blackwood walked from the shadows, bow in hand.

  'You shoot well,' said Drake.

  'I've had practice,' said Blackwood.

  Drake listened to the noise. From the sound of it, the pirates were winning control of the ship, though there were clearly at least half a dozen monsters aboard. But something was wrong. What? Yes, that was it - the wind had died. The ship was wallowing helplessly in the regular ocean swells.
<
br />   'I'd better go report to Jon Arabin,' said Drake, 'since I was on watch when the trouble started.'

  He found Jon Arabin shortly. The bald-headed one was leading a hunting party of men armed with weapons and lanterns. They had cornered a strange creature which looked like a crawling net, richly strung with floats. It was as wide as a dinghy, as long as a horse, and no higher off the ground than a badger-dog. Legs, claws, feelers and tiny eyes on stalks protruded from every float.

  'What's this?' said Drake.

  'It's a bowl of spaghetti which mated with a whore's-egg,' said Jon Arabin. 'You should be able to see that for yourself.'

  Upon which Ika Thole hurled a harpoon, skewering one of the floats to the deck. The net-creature screamed like a rabid rat, thrashed madly, tore itself free, and escaped to the dark leaving part of its body behind.

  Thole knelt to examine the skewered portion which remained - and a claw leaped out of it and slashed at his hand.

  'Pox and bitches!' he said, jumping back.

  'Club it to a pulp,' said Jon Arabin, curtly. Then, to Drake: 'How did this happen?'

  'There are logs in the sea,' said Drake, working more by guess than by the results of Investigation. 'The creatures were on them. We rammed the logs, they jumped aboard.'

  Shortly, Jon Arabin and Drake were at the ship's side with a lantern on a rope. They lowered it until its light shone clear on the water. They saw a log afloat on the swells. On the log, three monsters, just like the one which had hauled Drake along the deck.

  'Those are stalkers,' said Miphon quietly; he had come up alongside them without being noticed.

  Jon Arabin walked along, illuminating a different patch of sea. Another log. Another net creature.

  'That's a glarz,' said Miphon, 'that thing which looks like a portcullis made out of rope and decorated with water-melons.'

  'The net creature?' said Drake.

  'That's the one. And look, over there - two more glarz! And there's a keflo!'

  'The sea is full of logs,' said Jon Arabin, hauling up the lantern. 'Have you ever heard of such a thing?'

  'In the Long War,' said Miphon, 'the Skull of the Deep South launched many such armadas.'

  'Maybe they're near to death,' said Drake. 'They're just sitting there.'